PastaMania!...It's Real, It's Damn Real

I have heard through the grapevine that some of Arabian Facebuster's more critical and skeptical readership (Hi again, Mrs. Spas!) suspect that PastaMania!, Hulk Hogan's culinarily daring but ill-fated sustence stand/family feedbag at the Mall of America, is nothing more than a figment of this debonair correspondent's active imagination. After months of exhaustive research and inquiry putzing around on Youtube for ninety seconds, I have uncovered definitive video proof corrobrating its existence. Click "Play" on the clip above, crank up your speakers to 11, and witness Hogan lickspittle Eric Bischoff conduct an interview with our least favorite orange hued dirigible and enemy of America in front of the structure (no longer) in question. Regardless of your opinion of the man -- I happen to despise him with every bone in my perfectly sculpted body -- you have to be impressed by his ability to seamlessly hype his title defense against Big Bubba while shilling Hulkaroos as a key part of any balanced diet.

There you have it, PastaMania was real. Case closed. Now if only proving the existence of God could be so easy...and rewarding.

Bidding RVD Adieu

Unless you have been living under a rock, held against your will in the dank basement of one Pat Patterson, or trapped in the abandoned WCW Power Plant in an urban exploring adventure gone awry, you have undoubtedly heard the news that Rob Van Dam has decided not to re-up/re-sign with World Wrestling Entertainment. His “farewell” match will take place this Sunday at One Night Stand against terror watch list suspect and all around shitty guy -- pun damn well intended -- Randy Orton.

On behalf of the readership of Arabian Facebuster (Hi, Mrs. Spas!), I want to wish Rob Van Dam good health and happiness and during this well deserved sabbatical from profressional wrestling. I'm sure when his no-compete clause expires, we'll be seeing his flippity-floppity acrobatics and tired thumb pointing antics (see Figure 1.A above) in the hexagonal ring of TNA. In the interim, Rob, spend some quality time with your kids, help your wife out around the house, and for chrise sakes man, learn how to throw a realistic looking punch.

Salt In The Wound (Randy Orton Terror Watch Part 4)

Bad enough that Our Beloved Sabu (tm) has had his contract terminated by the double-double E. Worse that poor RVD will be hitting that lonely (pot-addled) highway as well. The crowning insult, however, is that RVD will be facing everyone's least favorite pistol-packing, gym-bag crapping, hotel-room wrecking mental health risk at the upcoming One Night Stand PPV. That's right, fans (?). RVD versus Randy Orton in a "Stretcher Match", live from the ECW arena in Jacksonville, Florida!

Is this how it ends? Is this the match that will end Rob Van Dam's ECW career? An incontinent, heavily-armed manchild will pretend to beat him up while a team of failed Hollywood Script-puncher-uppers beat up his contract in Real Life?

Look, rumor has it that RVD's been wrestling semi-hurt for a while, and with his hetero lifemate Sabu getting shitcanned, it seemed like prime time to seek the proverbial greener pastures (insert RVD weed joke? Meh.). Fine, whatever. It would just be nice if the WWE could give him a better sendoff than a savage (and unwatchable) beating from a terminal jackoff like Randy Orton.

Ah, well. Looks like all you Arabian Facebuster Readers (hi, mom!) will be getting a lot more mean-spirited snark and a lot less genuine enthusiasm for wrestling in the future. That's what you guys like best, anyway, right? Right? Hello?

Fuck. Just go read RVD's blog. It's funnier than this old thing, anyway.

Yr Flamboyant Dusty Rhodes Foto of the Week

Reason #113 to Despise Hulk Hogan

The fact that he starred in the most awesome music video ever made.

Yr Old Skool Tag Team of the Week

Dick Murdoch and Dusty Rhodes, The Texas Outlaws.

Fakin' Da Funk

Check out this recent news out of (surprise!) Tacoma. Seeking to avoid any similar litigation, the WWE legal team is strongly recommending that the company put the kibosh on the Eugene character. After all, a class action lawsuit seeking reimbursement for sympathy purchases of Eugene merchandise could cost the organization hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.

Those concerned with a change in direction for Randy Orton need not fear. Rigorous IQ and adaptive testing results confirm that Randall will continue to receive his monthly $630 SSI check without interruption. This is more important than you might think. Seems that the Legend Killer's current daily wage of a Fudgesicle and two shiny quarters does not go far towards paying the rent at Reverend Von Fury's Home for Wayward Boys.

While this may not bode well for young Randy's dream of someday owning a firearm, the WWE Taskforce on Mental Health reports that there is a bright side. With continued adherence to his daily training schedule and plenty of of encouragement, Mr. Orton is expected to be lacing his own boots by the end of the year!

Judgment Day...The PPV, not the Rapture

The WWE presents Judgment Day this Sunday on PPV. Since about 99% of the Facebuster nation will not be forking over $39.95 to the slow witted bastards at Comcast and/or spending three hours on the sabbath in the pursuit of temporal and worldly pleasures, I thought it fitting to instead start a thread on the matter. Per custom, venture your match predictions in the comments section.

This month, the winner will be the person who guesses the fewest number of correct results. And to the winner goes the spoils. The prize: an indelible sense of satisfaction from knowing that your wrestling intuition and acumen are more divergent from the WWE’s booking committee and corporate brain trust than your fellow Facebuster prognosticators.

Good luck.

Shawn Michaels: Bald Headed Geek

Besides tobacco, I am hard pressed to identify another industry that so consistently lies to and deceives its customer base more than professional wrestling. The most egregious offender? That would be World Wrestling Entertainment, of course. From listing Andre The Giant at 7’5”, to perpetuating the legend of the One Man Gang’s African lineage, to hoodwinking its credulous audience into believing that The Big Bossman was really a disgruntled former prison guard/inmate assaulter at the Cobb County Jail, to its history of denying the endemic and dangerous steroid and painkiller use/abuse by its superstars, to not informing its viewership that The Miz is the foremost collector of gay midget pornography in the world today, the company's litany of atrocities perpetrated against the truth reads long and detailed.

The latest fabrication and cover up, then, should surprise no one. Or should I say, fabrication and comb over?! As it turns out, WWE has been doctoring photos of evangelical superstar “The Heartbreak Kid” Shawn Michaels on its website, supplanting his balding cranium with a lush and thick head of hair.

I submit the set of photos below for your consideration.

Damning, isn’t it?

Up in Canada, Bret Hart most certainly has an enormous shit eating grin on his face…as he sits in his breakfast nook, alone, blathering belligerently about how Shawn and Vince screwed him over.

Bobby Lashley: Guy

Nature, dear readers, abhors a vacuum. So it is that, with our beloved Sabu's recent release from the clammy embrace of Extreme Championship Wrestling, we find ourselves casting wildly about for some flicker of personality among the show's remaining headliners. Attracted almost by the grim absence of animus, our gaze falls on the placid features of one Robert Lashley.

We have crafted an unflattering comparison. It glowers from the top of this post.

How tragic, then, that this gentleman is Vince McMahon's Chosen One. The wrestler upon whose broad shoulders rests the entire ECW brand. Consider the awesome burden placed on this tranquil Atlas. The glorious history and dubious future of ECW are in his massive ham-hands. He is YOUR main event, ECW faithful.

And he would fit right in here.

Clearly, something must be done. The man needs a massive gimmick overhaul if he is to restore our onetime favorite Wrestling Federation to its former glory. It goes almost without saying that Arabian Facebuster has just such a gimmick.

Bobby Lashley: Guy. It's magic. It's simple. It poses no challenge to Mr. Lashley's meager thespian skills. All the guy has to do is make constant references to his "regular guy" status. He shows no emotion, he doesn't rage around the ring. He just cuts the most simple and declarative promos ever.

An example:

Vince McMahon: Bwahaha! I have stolen your ECW belt, Bobby Lashley! And if you ever want a rematch, you cannot lay a finger on me or Shane-O-Mac or even Umaga! Bwahaha!

Bobby Lashley: Vince, I'm just a guy. And this guy really wants that belt back. I'm frustrated that I can't attack you, but willing to abide by the rules so I can get a shot at my belt. Because this guy sure does want that belt, guy.

Vince: You'll never get this belt! And there's nothing you can do about it! That must be eating you up inside!

Bobby: (sighs) Yes. I am one upset guy. You and all your guys are really being mean, guy. I'm just a guy. A guy who is upset. And a guy who wants his belt back. Oh, and also revenge. (sighs) Guy.

See? It's ratings gold. The crowd will eat it up, just like they did with that ridiculous "what" thing that Steve Austin used to do. Imagine 20,000 fans all chanting "guy" at random intervals. It will be glorious, and soothing like the sound of the tide.

So please, WWE. Implement our program. Let Bobby Lashley be the guy he was born to be, and watch as ECW's buy rate goes through the roof.

Oh, and also turn him gay.

...And Vito Too

More trimming of the proverbial fat over at the towers titan...the WWE has also terminated the contract of one Vito LoGrasso, shown here power shopping in San Francisco's Castro District for a pearl necklace to accentuate his Marilyn Monroe replica gown.

Somewhere along Arthur Avenue, a cross-dressing wise-guy weeps openly, but with his masculinity firmly in tact.

However, there is no need to keep Vito in your thoughts and/or prayers (i.e. "Dear Lord Jebus, please watch over Vito in his future endeavors"), oh benevolent and/or pious Facebusterites, for he has landed on his feet, procuring lucrative and licit employment at one of the world's premier fashion houses. Starting Monday, say hello to the Senior Buyer within the Moo Moo and Wearable Tablecloth Division at Dress Barn Incorporated.

BREAKING NEWS: Sabu Fired

Sabu has been officially terminated by World Wrestling Entertainment, effective just hours before last night's hour-long Bobby Lashley infomercial, otherwise known as "ECW on Sci Fi."

No word as to whether the WWE thanked Sabu for making innumerable sacrifices to his physical well being against the blimp-like Big Shew -- thereby carrying this talentless Hulk Hogan underling (is that redudant?) to his most entertaining feud in the past five years -- or at least wished him well in his future endeavors.

More tomorrow...on the ensuing riots in the streets of Portland!

Yr Old Skool Foto of the Week

Mr. Wrestling (Tim Woods) unloads on Baron Von Raschke. Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, circa 1978.

Randy Orton Terror Watch Part 3

I take no credit for unearthing the glittering gem featured above. All kudos go to the ever-vigilant (and journalistically responsible) Online Onslaught for getting the scoop. In fact, I'm hesitant to post their link, lest you all find out exactly how many stories I steal from them. Anyhoo, bear with this incredibly dry Gun Paranoia News report. Things start to heat up around the 1:10 mark.

Shocking Evidence Revealed

Facebusterists, I wanted to update you on the whole Randy Orton trashing a hotel room in Europe fiasco. As part of our ongoing investigation of the matter, Arabian Facebuster has obtained irrefutable photographic evidence illustrating the extent of the carnage wrought.

WARNING: The image below is graphic, profoundly disturbing, and damning. Proceed with prudence. As a precaution, I would advise you to ask the wife and kids, or anybody with an especially weak constitution, to leave the room immediately.

I don't doubt that the Randy Orton apologists and lickspittles out there are already calling into question the authenticity of this image and the means by which it was obtained while concurrently trying to discredit Arabian Facebuster as nothing more than a shadowy operation run by Orton's fanatical and vengeful enemies.

My friends, these allegations couldn't be further from the truth. Arabian Facebuster is an empirical, pragmatic, reality-based enterprise. Under no circumstances do we falsify information, predetermine our conclusions, engage in wanton speculation, or set out to ruin lives and reputations. The fact of the matter is that Randy Orton is both a habitual gym bag crapper AND a moderately priced, tastefully decorated hotel room trasher. Reputable independent sources have substantiated the validity of our contentions. For chrise sakes people, we're not talking the Niger yellowcake uranium forgeries. It's a slam dunk!

I'll stake my journalistic reputation on it.

Reason #9 to Despise Hulk Hogan

The motion picture mind numbing claptrap No Holds Barred.

And to the narrator's quip if we are "ready for a whole new Hulk Hogan?" Yes, yes we are.

Rated-R Cheers and Jeers

Cheers! To the Rated-R Superster, Edge, for winning Mr. Kennedy's Money-In-The-Bank privileges on Monday night RAW.
Jeers! To the aforementioned Kennedy for (supposedly) tearing his triceps off the bone in said match, derailing a promising run as Smackdown!'s number one heel.
Jeers! To Edge for defecting to Smackdown, leaving the hotel-smashing manchild Randy Orton without adult guidance.
Cheers! To Edge for cashing in his MITB privileges by beating an exhausted Undertaker for the Smackdown! Title.
Jeers! To Mark Henry, for appearing on my TV.
Jeers! Again to Mark Henry, for existing.
Cheers! To The WWE for wisely giving the number one heel push to Edge instead of Mark Henry.
However, my number one JEER of the week also goes to the Double-Double E, for ANNOUNCING THE OUTCOME OF A FUCKING CAGE MATCH ON THEIR WEBSITE A FULL THREE DAYS BEFORE ANYONE HAS A CHANCE TO WATCH IT!!!!!

Yes, we all know the Undertaker's hurt, can't keep defending the title, Money-In-The-Bank swerve blahblahblah. Whatever. At least let us pretend that these match outcomes aren't completely predetermined. If you've got a title change coming up and you're not confident that you can keep the match outcome a secret, just DO IT ON A LIVE TAPING. The internets may be fast, but we can't exceed the speed of light (yet).

Anyway, congrats to Edge for getting to live his banner year all over again.

"What The Cock" Update Photo

Photographic proof: Little Boogeyman needs to work on tightening up his entrance routine. Big Boogey, for all his other failings, is right on time with the headbanging-pyro-clock routine. Little Boogey? Not so much.

Yr Rasslin' Mugshot of the Week

The Big Shew, Memphis, TN December 1998. The accusation: Exposing himself to a female hotel employee. The case was eventually dropped due to a lack evidence, adding credence to my theory that the Big Shew has a microscopic penis.

What The Cock Is This Shit?

I admit that, like most thinking humans, I have missed the last several months of WWE Smackdown! (The enforced exclamation point is giving me the vapors, BTW). Thus, when a sense of journalistic duty finally moved me to stop the infernal blinking of my VCR clock last night, I was understandably surprised to see the grotesque image that confronts you atop this post.

A little Boogeyman? The big one wasn't enough? Let me see if I follow the logic here: you've got a third-rate Kane ripoff (which, if you're keeping score, makes him at least a fourth or fifth-rate Undertaker ripoff) whose sloppy ringwork and tepid crowd response have already led to you firing him TWICE, and not only do you keep depleting the (publicly traded) WWE coffers to keep him in leather pants and alarm clocks, but you go and hire a "little person" to follow him around and emulate his shtick? W, verily, TF?

Look, I get the Finlay/Little Bastard (sigh... FINE.) HORNSWOGGLE gimmick. Hornswoggle's a LEPRECHAUN, right? And Finlay's, like... Irish? Okay, that makes a degree of sense. So this evil Leprechaun hides under the ring, and hits the Miz in the nuts with a shillelagh (yay!) and actually DOES STUFF. Little Boogey (shudder) doesn't do anything. He just follows the Boogeyman around and mimics Boogey's moves out of synch with the pyro (if last night's performance was any indication). He also jumps around at ringside and cheers, but that's a moot point 'cos you can't fucking see him over the ring!

Perhaps Vince McMahon is trying to start a Midget Wrestling Division (I'm sorry, guys. If Howard Stern has taught me anything, it's that y'all prefer to be "Little People", but it's been Midget Wrestling since before I was born, and it'll be Midget Wrestling long after I'm dead) to compensate for his terminally unwatchable Women's Division. I can't find fault with that. But, please... don't do it like this. Don't stick us with Little Boogeyman. Let Hornswoggle feud with... I don't know, Tiny Benoit or something. Shorty Too Hotty? Mini Wang Yang? Whatever. Just take the Little Boogeyman away.

Pencil Neck Geek, you're a stockholder. Can nothing be done?

Worst Wrestling Around

Shockingly crude.
Perversely watchable.
Unintentionally uproarious.
Breathtakingly atrocious.
Hideously unforgettable.
Beyond awful.
Dreadful +1.
Evolution and inherent goodness of man reconsidering.
Total fucking schwaz.

Ok, I give up...I am at a loss as to how most bluntly besmirch the Western Wrestling Association's sophomoric and ham-fisted approximation of professional wrestling last month at the New Brighton Tri-City American Legion's banquet room (heretofore referred to as the "Dub Dub A Arena"). Oh, I got it...how about Worst Wrestling Around!? It's a play on their acronym, and an ingenious one to boot.

Regardless of the specific phraseology, suffice it to say, these aspirant superstars may need to hone their mat wrestling skills, brawling abilities, aerial maneuvers, rope running, selling, pacing, in-ring psychology, microphone work, physiques, and all around athleticism before giving the grapplers in Ring of Honor a run for their money.

Some lowlights:

1. There looked to be 100 or so people in attendance. About 70% of the audience was comprised of the developmentally disabled and the persons responsible for transporting them to and fro. 28% appeared to be an assortment of dejected families from the nearby trailer park, dirty dirty ring rats, and confused slack jawed drunks who stumbled out of the Legion bar looking for the parking lot ("Dat gum, it's around here somewhere, I reckon!") and wound up in the Dub Dub A Arena. The remaining 2% were urban professionals (i.e. my friend Martha and me).
2. Peculiarly, the announcers -- Warren Christie and "Terrible" Terri did commentary over the PA during the bouts (possibly in reaction to the audience composition detailed above or simply as a matter of post-production expediency). Terri ought to consider enrolling in a remedial vocabulary course over at the local elementary school based on her propensity to refer to the heels as "dummies" while butchering words like "soprano." As in, "He'll be singing sopranto after that shot."
   
3. After doing the job via a freaking standing powerslam, masked inbred spastic redneck Handsome Pete delivered a botched Double J guitar shot, knocking the dapperly dressed Super Lee Cool legit silly.
   
4. I was sternly reprimanded by The Master (whose web site bio was ghost written by Saul Bellow) for snapping some digital pictures because it was interfering with their public access filming, despite the fact that there was no written or verbal announcement that digital/flash photogoraphy was strictly prohibited. Not wanting to get stretched out or have my stomach punctured with a jagged meth pipe, I promptly powered off the camera, returned to my seat, and continued enjoying shaking my head in disdain at the in-ring action tedium.

Tonight, Worst Wrestling Around returns to the Dub Dub A Arena. Mercifully, this dashing correspondent will not.

Back from the Front with Observation

Ring of Honor made its long awaited return to St. Paul MN on Friday night. Yours truly Malibu Sands (pictured ringside in the brown shirt and with an astounded look on my face) along with Frogtown (the guy in the Minnesota Twins cap) and Doughnuts (the guy in the striped blue polo shirt who has been mistakened in public for both the affable Clay Aiken of American Idol fame and the irrepressible Tad Martin on All My Children) endured the sauna like conditions of the Saint Paul Armory to enjoy an evening of hard-hitting wrestling action and superlative people watching.

As the result of leisurely sipping a couple of drinks at our favorite St. Paul bar, we entered the building about thirty minutes after bell time. Much to our chagrin, no alcohol was being served; the only items for sale were energy drinks, water, pizza, DVDs, and shoddily stitched (read: "Made in the USA") t-shirts, all of which the deformed, disfigured, and cognitively feeble zombie mutant rubes were buying at a steady pace. Needing a mixer to tame the flavor of our smuggled in hard liquor, as well as a base to absorb some of its inebriating properties, food and drinks were purchased. In a development that surprised no one, the $3 tall boys of RockStar were warm while the $2 slices of cheese pizza were cold.

Luckily the wrestling action more than compensated for the lack of concession options. Allow me to offer a quick-n-dirty summation of what we witnessed:

• The Briscoe Brothers executed numerous innovative double team maneuvers in their successful defense of the Tag Titles in a four team endurance match, outlasting Jigsaw/Mike Quackenbush.

• Homicide/Cabana and Albright/Pearce engaged in a wild, plunderific (chairs, tables, and such) brawl that spilled into the crowd with the latter team defeating the former. Post-match saw the delivery of the Cop Killa and Colt 45 on the hapless heel manager.
  

• During intermission, we laid claim to some prime ringside property, forgoing our assigned tickets in the back row.

• Despite doing the job to Rocky Romero and his hackneyed heel stylings, Jack Evans busted out some impressive flippity-floppity offense and took a number of sick bumps in the ROH equivalent of a "fatal four way." Yes, he also puked.

• Roderick Strong and Christopher Daniels put on a fundamentally sound, methodically paced, and hard fought match with an unsatisfying conclusion (Daniels was counted out).

• And in my favorite match of the night, Takeshi Morishima (who had a ring presence reminiscent of the late Terry Gordy) retained the ROH Title over the "hometown" (raised in Milwaukee but trained in the Twin Cities) challenger Austin Aries that featured some spectacular offense during the finishing -- a brainbuster and 450 splash (pictured above) leading to a believable near-fall by Aries, a cartwheel splash in the corner, top-rope driving suplex, and brutually stiff lariat by Morishima.

Yr Ring of Honor Foto of the Week

Malibu Sands marking out at ringside, Ring of Honor, St. Paul MN 4.27.07. Also pictured, Roderick Strong giving Christopher Daniels a fall-away slam off the middle turnbuckle.

And Me, My Tit Is Killing Me

Lest you think I'm the sort of character who welches on his bets, here (at long last) is my review/book report on Joanie "Chyna/Chyna Doll/'Holiday'/Rex/Anna Nicole's BFF" Laurer's auto(ha!)biography If They Only Knew.

I should begin by disclosing my lack of credentials. I am about to make several snide and critical remarks about a book that the poor woman pictured at left (supposedly) wrote. She is a human being with feelings, and aside from several years spent writing music and film criticism, another several years spent writing short fiction, a year spent editing this beauty of a website right here, and maintaining close friendships with several English Majors (one of whom happens to be my MOM), I have NOTHING in my background that qualifies me to judge another person's writing. I'm just being mean.

If They Only Knew is a spastic, incoherent mess, and I don't believe for a second that Joanine Laurer wrote it. It's packed to the gills with the sort of strained imagery and tortured metaphors one associates with the worst kind of ghostwriter: the sort employed by the WWE.

What's more, the arc of the story (such as it is) is prone to five-page digressions, as though Chyna (I'm tired of typing her government name) were rambling into a tape recorder (or, more likely, chatting with her ghostwriter) and wandering down the long-forgotten goat paths of memory (that one's not in the book. It's too good) before being herded back on point by a clucking shepherd. Take, for instance, the part in Chapter 9 where Chyna starts out talking about the Fitness America competitions, takes time out to talk about her bad experience with a BODYBUILDING competition (there is, apparently, a difference), veers WILDLY off to talk about trying to join the secret service, and then retraces her steps for seven pages before getting back to the original point, such as it was.

Oh, and her book has cameos in it. Cameo WRITERS in it. Chyna ropes both Triple H and Mick Foley in to write a few pages of her book. This is presented as though the guests were just walking by as Chyna reached their parts in the story, and she "just lets them tell it." It's hilariously awkward, moreso because this ludicrous device isn't trotted out until page 216 of a 318 page book.

All of this makes it sound like ITOK is good for a laugh. It is. Hell, it's good for several laughs. Deep, massive, soul-satisfying belly laughs. If you cherry pick lines from this book, it'll have you wiping tears from your eyes. If, however, you actually wade through every page, you'll feel like you've spent an hour or two in someone else's bathwater. Chyna's life is an unending litany of failure, misery, and self-loathing. What's worse, the book's tone is relentlessly upbeat. Knowing what we do of her life after the final chapter of the book (abusive boyfriend, sex tape, pill habit, "singing career", stint on The Surreal Life) makes the pathos almost unbearable. It becomes clear to even the most callous, unsympathetic cad (that would be me) that Chyna is DEEPLY traumatized by her life and is using a manic and false self-confidence to shield herself from the actual emotions stirred by (here's the list people): her abusive parents, her cancer, her rape, the sexism of the wrestling business, her con-man father, oh and (according to the porn reviewer at VICE magazine) the FACT THAT SHE'S A HERMAPHRODITE.

Jesus. Anyway, the only way to get through this epic chronicle of self-denial and human suffering is to turn it into a drinking game. Here's when you drink:

Chyna complains about a parent.
Chyna uses a strained or mixed metaphor.
The ghostwriter leaves in a gramatical error.
Chyna veers off on a tangent. Drink twice if it lasts more than two pages.
Chyna talks about the smell of "sports cream" (no shit, this rule alone will get you loaded).
Chyna insults Killer Kowalski.
Chyna talks about how tough you have to be to make it in wrestling, but then is either crying or screaming at someone within two pages. Drink twice if it's Melissa Rivers.
Chyna glosses over her body being "different".

I could add more rules, but the Arabian Facebuster Wellness Policy forbids it. I'll simply leave you to it, adding only that you lightweights aren't gonna make it through the second chapter. Enjoy. I didn't.

Reason #163 to Despise Hulk Hogan...

His willingness to the recruit the mentally deranged in his quest to sell bowls of pasta to the uninformed, unsophisticated masses. Bowls of hot, flavorful, delicious pasta.

Ring of Honor...It's On!

Yours truly will be heading to the St. Paul Armory this evening to plunk down a hard earned $15.00 in order to take in the action, competition, and spectacle that is Ring of Honor. While admittedly no more than a casual follower of the promotion, there are quite a few guys (notwithstanding notables like Christopher Daniels, Homicide, Aries, and Strong) that I am excited to see in action, specifically Takeshi Morishima, The Briscoe Brothers, Jack Evans (Apollo, wasn't he in WSX?), and Mike Quackenbush. Plus, it is Colt Cabana's final weekend working for ROH before relocating to Stamford, CT and paying about three months worth of dues jobbing to the likes of Val Venis and Kenny Dykstra on Heat before paying antoher three months of dues jobbing to the likes of The Great Khali and Johnny Nitro on RAW.

Anyways, here's the card...

ROH World Title Match

Takeshi Morishima vs. Austin Aries

FIP World Heavyweight Title Match

Roderick Strong vs. Christopher Daniels

World Tag Team Title Ultimate Endurance

(elimination match with each fall having a different stipulation. First fall can only be won by tap out. Second fall is a Tag Team Scramble meaning no tags are needed. Final fall is for the ROH World Tag Team Titles)

ROH World Tag Team Champions Jay & Mark Briscoe

vs.

Pelle Primeau & Mitch Franklin

vs.

Mike Quackenbush & Jigsaw

vs.

Hallowicked & Gran Akuma

Four Corner Survival Match
Jack Evans vs. Delirious vs. Rocky Romero vs. Erick Stevens

Anything Goes Fight

Colt Cabana & Homicide vs. Brent Albright & Adam Pearce with Shane Hagadorn

Special Challenge Match
BJ Whitmer vs. Shingo

SHIMMER Tag Team Action

St. Paul's own Rain & Lacey vs. Sara Del Rey & Allison Danger

An update on the Ring of Honor experience will be forthcoming next week, along with a belated summary of the Western Wrestling Association preposterousness from a few weeks back...I promise!

But He Did Stay at a Holiday Inn Express

In case anyone was concerned as to the whereabouts of Randy Orton (pictured at left doing an impression of a Korean with a migraine) on last night’s RAW, fear not, he wasn’t murdered, abducted, jailed or anything comparatively nightmarish. As it turns out, last weekend this overpushed youngster was sent home early from the WWE’s tour of Europe for trashing one of the continent's finer motor lodges. No word as to whether Mr. Orton rode business class or suffered the indignity of flying coach on his trip back to the states.

According to a well placed source within the company, who requested anonymity in discussing the matter, “As a result of Randy’s sudden departure and harsh admonishment, locker room morale has plummeted to an all-time low. But perplexingly, the number of unattended gym bags NOT being mysteriously defecated in is at a five year high.”

If you ask me, this whole situation sounds like a classic case of mistaken identity. Rest assured, Arabian Facebuster will pass along any additional information as it is made available.

Yr (Still Livin' in the) 80s Tag Team of the Week

The Rock & Roll Express: Robert Gibson, (some portly rube jackass) and Ricky Morton, circa 2005. Yes, 2005.

Prime Figure In Flat Grey Landscape

Holy. Shit. All real wrestling fans need to haul ass with the greatest possible dispatch over to the Bruiser Brody website. Apparently some total geniuses have put together a biography of the greatest promo man of all time. It's a limited edition of 1,000 copies, features interviews with basically the entire world, and is being previewed in the golden basket of angel tears now showing at the top of the post. I must now stop typing, as my hands are sweating and I'm shaking uncontrollably.

They really ought to consider making a movie out of this shit.

Prepare to be Blown Away...

...By a supplement even more effective at trimming the fat than expired Four Horsemen Vitamins!

Reason #104 to Despise Hulk Hogan

His penchant for leaking petty, lackluster, and most certainly non-newsworthy tidbits to drum up publicity for Hogan Knows Best while perpetuating his self-delusion of cultural relevance. Somebody please introduce me to the reporter that would actually spend an iota of their time and journalistic capital muckraking this nonsense. No, Jimmy Hart and Brian Knobbs are not reporters. They are sycophants.

From the New York Post's Page Six:

April 17, 2007 -- HAS the longest, strongest marriage in professional wrestling history suffered a fatal, bone-crunching blow?

Sources close to Hulk and Linda Hogan, who've been wedded for more than 20 years, say they're "going through a very hard time and their marriage is under a lot of strain."

The problems started several years ago when the Hogan family - including the couple's kids, aspiring pop singer Brooke and amateur race-car driver Nick - started filming the VH1 show "Hogan Knows Best." One friend said, "They have different beliefs on how to raise kids. Brooke started her music career, and they started getting into fights."

Some of the well-documented battles on the show have been over how scantily clad Brooke - just 18 when she did her first major magazine - should be, or how late she could stay out with boyfriends.

During the show, the Hogans moved from their longtime residence in Tampa to a Miami mansion, and also bought houses in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. While either Linda or Hulk traveled with Brooke or Nick to their various events, they rarely traveled together. Another source of tension was Hulk, 53, desperately wanting to get back into wrestling, while Linda wanted to body-block the idea, fearing he could get hurt.

At one point, the friend said, "Linda got so fed up she quit the VH1 show. She just walked off. No one knows what started that fight but it was serious." Linda is now back on set to film the fourth season.

Another insider said, "At one point they were talking divorce. It's still precarious."

A rep for the Hogans declined comment. But Hulk's wrestling manager, Jimmy Hart, told us, "There's ups and downs in every marriage. I was with them last weekend in Miami shooting the show and everything seemed fine.

"Dionne Warwick was there to do a song with Brooke, and Linda seemed fine. Ever since they went to marriage counseling on that VH1 show, people have said there were problems, but it's fine."

Sorry Hulkster (and minions), but a married couple navigating a rough patch in their relationship does not remotely qualify as "news" or even "juicy gossip." Now say Linda files for divorce from your resplendently leathery skinned carcass, that's news. Or that your marriage is legitimately the "longest and strongest in professional wrestling history," now that's news. Or that your vocally pitchy daughter Brooke engaged in a late-night lesbian tryst with the geriatric Dionne Warwick after their hit making recording session, now that's juicy gossip!

Yr 4 Horsemen Foto of the Week

Jim Ross interviews a ponytailed "Nature Boy" Ric Flair and members of the Horsemen.

The Trick Is To Stop Thinking Of It As "Your" Money...

A reminder from your friends here at Arabian Facebuster: Your taxes are due!

And don't even think about blowing off those goons over at the Internal Revenue Service. You wouldn't want this to happen, would you?

Reason #248 to Despise Hulk Hogan

In Arabian Facebuster's perpetual quest to marshal evidence showing Hulk Hogan to be...how do I put this tactfully...the shimmering orange demon spawn of Lucifer and Hitler, I submit for your consideration you this clip of haughty wrestling buffoonery.

And for all of you library science nerdlingers out there, please also archive this clip under "Reason #194 to validate that Randy Savage is completely fucking mad."

Kanyon Gayness Update

Openly gay wrestler Chris Kanyon was on the Howard Stern show today, mere moments (in geologic time) after announcing his retirement from pro wrestling. He discussed his recent suicide attempt (jumping in front of a train? How does that end up as an "attempt"?), his continuing struggles with depression (leading pillar of mental and physical health Artie Lange to offer him some free psychiatric counseling) and his persecution complex (during his manic phases, Kanyon tends to believe that "powerful forces," Vince McMahon among them, are conspiring to destroy his life... Heather Mills should take notes).

Of most interst to this writer were Kanyon's claims that Dennis Rodman was "stinking drunk" when he showed up for training sessions with Kanyon back in the bad old days of the Russo-fied WCW. Kanyon also says orange-hued Islamofascist Hulk Hogan threatened to kick Rodman's ass if he didn't get in line.

See? Hogan hates our freedoms. Specifically, our freedom to be drunk, arrogant, pansexual herpes factories.

Regardless, Arabian Facebuster once again salutes the (possibly nutty) Chris Kanyon, and we wish him all the best in his future endeavors.

BREAKING NEWS: Disco Inferno Arrested!

Law abiding and Christianist citizens of Georgia...disarm your home security systems, leave your doors ajar, let your children roam wild and/or free in the streets, and don't forget to PRAISE JESUS! For a sinful and illegal weekly high stakes poker game in your community has been shut down.

And get this...there's a wrestling connection! Glen Gilberti aka Disco Inferno (pictured here just moments before infiltrating a John Travolta impersonator convention) was arrested as part of the gambling sting. If you want more details on this wholly uninteresting situation, then click here.

Much like the iconic (albeit secular) weekly literary periodical TV Guide, Arabian Facebuster would like to give an enthusiastic CHEERS to Georgia state law enforcement for putting this degenerate, always on-tilt gambler and recreational drug user wanton, dangerous, and Godless criminal where he belongs -- BEHIND BARS.

Arabian Facebuster would also like to present Disco Inferno with a vociferous JEERS for the cigarette smuggling and sodomy that he will inevitably partake in while in the clink. Mr. Inferno, while in lockdown, we also hope that you find the time to repent for your sins and develop a personal sanctimonious relationship with Jesus Christ. Because resurrection will be your reward.

Yr Facebuster All-Stars Foto of the Week

Big Gay King Mabel tranquilly crushes the chest of the late Scott "Bam Bam" Bigelow as as an exasperated Lex Luger watches helplessly.

Nightmarish Secrets At Last Revealed

I realise it may be hard for some of you to view the following images. What you are about to see strikes directly at the core of our most cherished assumptions about Democracy, Safety, and National Pride. But better to stand shivering in the harsh light of cruel reality than toil blindly under the oppressive yoke of The Neo-Conservative World Capitalist New World Order (or Drug Goon Psycho Communist Mind-Control Mafia, if that's more your speed).

Fear for my own safety prevents me from naming names, but I think it's fairly obvious from the photographic evidence who the REAL threat to our Republic is. Clearly, a certain leering "orange-hued dirigible (thanks to Malibu Sands for the apt description) has made the ultimate "heel turn" and is now in league with those who hate us for our freedoms.

I call on our nation's leaders to turn our military might against the TRUE threat to American Liberty. Our current policy of adventurism is clearly a smokescreen, meant to distract us from the real culprits. Yes, our foe is powerful, but Lady America must prevail! What are YOU gonna do, terrorist scum, when the Department of Homeland Security runs wild on YOU?!

In closing, I must sound one final discordant note of trouble: Where does Randy Savage stand in all of this? Is he in league with our enemies, plotting America's downfall from the comfort of his palatial estate? Or is he fearlessly leading a resistance effort, meting out vigilante justice from the safety of th' Underground? Or is he in a padded room somewhere, sobbing and babbling incoherently to a Diamond Dallas Page stuffed toy?

U Say AmeriCAN'T, I Say AmeriCAN

After repeated viewings of this slickly produced piece of crap propaganda, I am still unsure as to whether its meta narrative is that Hulk Hogan's contributions to the republic and influence on the polity are commensurate with Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Kennedy, and MLK, or that whenever the ol' US and A is confronted with hostility, be it from loathsome flag burners, treasonous anti-war agitators, or diabolical foreign madmen (like Nikolai Volkoff or that no good Lybian son-of-a-bitch Kadafi), America always hulks up and drops a great big melanoma ridden leg on its enemies.

Or am I missing the premise entirely? Take a gander and decide for yourself.

I'm Off the Wagon, Part 2

It has been a long time since your faithful scribe has attended a live professional wrestling event. Too damn long. In fact, the last wrestling event that I graced with my presence was an ICW-Tacoma show back in the late spring of 2000.

I vividly remember the main event of that card like it was yesterday...with hands bound, legs shackled, eyes blindfolded, and nose pinched shut via clothespin, "Streetfighter" Tim Flowers (aka the Triple H of Tacoma) single-handedly decimated ICW Tag Team Champions Richie Magnett AND Buddy Wayne in a handicapped-barbed wire-flaming tables-lumberjack-street fight and then, as a result of his victory, was granted five minutes alone in the ring with the tag champs' manager -- a rabid and almost certainly inbred grizzly bear cub. After powerbombing the feral beast off the top rope through a flaming table covered with thumb tacks, thereby rendering it unconscious in a puddle of its own filth, Flowers proceeded to have unprotected sex with the hottest women from the throng of lovelies congregated at ringside, wearing nothing but the just acquired tag team title gold belts around his perfectly proportioned waist. Now that's wrestling!

Regrettably, I had probably guzzled down about 10 PBR tall boys or so by the time the main event went on, so I am likely leaving out a few of the ancillary details from that otherwise unforgettable night at the (Michael the Neckel) Temple Theatre.

However, my seven year pro wrestling itch is going to get scratched big time come Friday evening!
The place: The Tri-City American Legion (the Frank Lloyd Wright designed edifice pictured above) in New Brighton, MN.
The bell time: 7:00pm.
The promotion: The Western Wrestling Association (you may want to spend a couple of minutes perusing through their site as it's quite a hoot).
The reason I am attending this indy-garbage monstrosity: My friend Martha was invited by one of the wrestler's to attend the show but she is petrified of going alone, wanting instead to be escorted to the matches by someone who projects vitality, confidence, and credibility. Since her friends that actually possess these traits already have plans, I am accompanying her instead.

Facebusteristas, next week I promise to post a recap of all of the ludicrousness that is the Western Wrestling Association live and in person. Until then, enjoy some frosty cans of Iron City and TNA Impact at The Tiny Bubble Room.

Yr Old Skool Canadian Foto of the Week

A young Owen Hart and stern Bad News Allen.

Thanks, God... for NOTHING!

Now, we see the reward for my faith. I trusted that Our Heavenly Father would rain blessings down on his humble servant (The Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels) in the form of sweet, sweet title gold. Alas, it was not to be. The tie-breaking final match of the night (A tie for first place between Rev. VonFury and Th' Pencil Neck Geek, and a tie for last place between Yrs Truly and Malibu Sands) went to White Rapper John Cena. And lo, the seventh seal did open, and the seas did boil, and I had to do a report on the steaming turd pictured at left.


The book! The book is the turd, you meanies. God, no wonder she's always crying.

BREAKING NEWS: Anna Nicole Still Dead, Chyna Still Insane

Train wreck. Car collision. Bowling shoe ugly. A total fucking mess. What, and/or possibly who, the heck am I talking about?

“The Marine,” starring John Cena? Nope, try again.

My temperament, judgment, and equilibrium after guzzling down two cans of Camo Black Ice? No, but you're getting warmer.

Last night’s Great Khali vs. Kane encounter? Technically accurate, but wide of the mark in capturing my intent.

"Good Ol’ JR’s" euphemisms for making sweet sweet love to his old lady? Profoundly disturbing, albeit not an unreasonable supposition.

The definitive answer my Arabian Facebuster amigos is Joanie Laurer aka Chyna Doll (pictured above just seconds after dicing a particularly large onion), specifically her (1) hysterical reaction to the totally foreseeable demise of her "dear friend" Anna Nicole Smith; and (2) enduring and unwavering exploitation of Anna's agonizing death (or if you're a glass half full type, then replace "agonizing death" with "shallow and utterly worthless life") for the purposes of straight to video motion picture promotion and career advancement. Although Chyna comes across surprisingly lucid and sympathetic in this clip, rest assured, she’ll be engaing in self-ostracizing behavior (like getting back together with X-Pac) and hitting rock bottom (like getting back together with X-Pac!) again real soon. In 5, 4, 3, 2...

Stakes Is High

Hey gang, Wrestlemania 23 is tomorrow! Meh, you say? No whining, Facebuster staff- wrestling fans worldwide will be awaiting a dismissive recap with baited breath. To ease the burden of our journalistic obligations, Pencil Neck Geek hereby pledges a half rack of Rainier* to whoever posts the most correct predictions in our comments section.

Be warned that you will want to make your selections with utmost care. The participant with the fewest correct picks will be required to read (or at least flip through on the crapper) Joanie "Chyna" Laurer's "If They Only Knew" and write a review here on Arabian Facebuster. I know this seems harsh, but that Kane vs. Khali match ain't getting any more interesting on its own...

* In an effort to curb the alcohol poisoning epidemic currently sweeping the Facebuster community, Camo Black Ice has been replaced as the Official Prize Beer of Wrestlemania.

Yr Belated Old Skool Foto of the Week

Wrestlemania III, The Silverdome Pontiac, MI, March 1987.

What I Learned in Portland

My sincerest apologies to the Arabian Facebuster Nation for the lack of substantive posts in recent weeks. While a picture of "Playboy" Buddy Rose might be enough to placate this svelte athlete's former tag team partner and avid reader of the Facebuster, Doug "Pretty Boy" Summers (Doug, shoot me a PM about your clandestine yet hopefully lucrative business adventures in the cartel controlled territories of Colombia), most of you crave more...more flippant and increasingly unhinged commentary and old-skool content from Malibu Sands...more provocative insight and analysis of all things WSX and TNA from Apollo Spas...more cautionary tales on immoderation coupled with spiritual guidance and revelations from Rev. Von Fury...and more riveting and hilarious Friday Night Smackdown! fodder from Pencil Neck Geek.

Again, I am sorry for the scarcity of March content. However, it was an incredibly busy month. As many of you know, we held our inaugural Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference. A big shout out to the Portland Doubletree Hotel & Executive Meeting Center for the posh accommodations and well appointed meeting room (the Cascade Ballroom, pictured at left, served as the Facebuster's spacious war room). Even at the apex of his despotic rule, Saddam Hussein never had it this good. And oh the service! Why they must have replenished our buffet items and beverage station every ninety minutes. In my mind, their attention to detail, team oriented approach to guest relations, and commitment to excellence are both unprecedented and unparalleled in the increasingly homogeneous and indifferent corporate hospitality industry. I think I speak for all of the Arabian Facebuster staff in declaring that we will be returning to the Doubletree next year to enjoy their not unreasonable meeting room rates, high-speed WI-FI, flaky breakfast pastries, buxom catering staff, palatial urinals, and complimentary valet parking.

The good times had at the Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference will not soon be forgotten. We laughed. We cried. We prayed. We styled and profiled. We drank lots of Iron City (except for the snooty microbrew quaffing Rev. Von Fury). We appreciatively watched a shitload of professional wrestling, including TNA's March PPV "Destination X." We split a 24oz can of Camo Black Ice.

Most significantly, I learned more about my Arabian Facebuster brethren and pro wrestling, not to mention myself, than I ever thought possible over an alcohol filled weekend retreat. I learned that delivering a plastic candle opera shot to someone's head will cause them to gush buckets upon buckets of beautiful blood. I became aware that prolonged steroid use precludes you from drawing nary a drop of crimson, even after gashing your forehead with a razor blade. I found out the hard way that scaffold matches, no matter what gimmicky name they are given, are tedious at best, self-mutilation provoking at worst. I discovered that in order to look and sound like the spittin' image of Don "Wild Wild" West, all I have to do is incorporate two packs of cigarettes, a box of Hostess chocolate frosted mini-doughnuts, and a pint of value priced scotch into my daily nutritional regimen, along with a sense of apprehension towards any physical exertion whatsoever. I learned that Kathy Lee Crosby is the most astute and erudite analyst of professional wrestling, ever. Sorry, I meant Susan St. James. I realized that the only thing more ashen than Velvet McIntyre's elfin breasts are the delegates who attend the Republican National Convention. Lastly, I learned that Camo Black Ice is, without question, the most thirst quenching elixir on the market today.

Not With A Bang, But With A Simper...

First of all, countless apologies for my gross dereliction of blogging duty. Yes, it's been weeks since my last post, but I've only just emerged from the alcoholic coma I fell into during the First Annual Arabian Facebuster Staff Conference. Goddamn that Camo Black Ice.

Having wiped the crust from my eyes, I find that the high-strung youngsters over at Wrestling Society X are in grave danger of cancellation. The final five episodes (!) of their schmozz-tastic product were aired in one two-and-a-half-hour(!!) death spasm, no doubt inducing epileptic fits in all seven WSX viewers. As it stands now, the WSX massive are waiting, hats in hands, for a last minute reprieve from the overseers at MTV. Check the blog at their Myspace Account for your daily fix of schadenfreude. I love that they're being cancelled in order to"strategize the best way to bring the show back to the fans". Get it? They're being fired so they can do their jobs better. For free. In Fabian Kaelin's mom's basement.

Ah, well. Maybe now I can live my dream of hiring Teddy Hart to do shooting star presses off the shed in my back yard. That should keep those damn transients from breaking into my basement.

Yr Rock-n-Rasslin' Foto of the Week

Sting(s).

Wrestlers On Dope Follow-Up Post

Oh, and Sports Illustrated's cover story this month is about a "Wellness Clinic" that was apparently supplying hundreds (thousands?) of athletes with steroids. Your Olympic Hero Kurt Angle turned up in the clinic's database. It seems that during 2004 and 2005, Angle received a smattering of "enhancements" from these cats.

In other shocking news, water was recently found to be wet.

Stay Off The Yay

Let this shit be a lesson to you punk kids.

The toxicology reports on Bam Bam Bigelow finally came out, and the cause of death is being listed as "toxic levels of cocaine" as well as antianxiety drugs (read: Xanax) and narrow arteries.

I hope this can be of some benefit to the gentlemen at the table next to me at the Twilight Room the other night. I have no idea what heart conditions those fellows may or may not have had, but they sure seemed anxious and they wouldn't shut up about all the blow they were going to do.

Yr Portland Related Foto of the Week

"Playboy" Buddy Rose. All 217lbs of him.

WARNING: DON'T WATCH THIS CLIP

Above is Youtube footage of the second half of WSX Episode 4. Gentle readers, I must caution you: do NOT watch the entire clip. It contains spinny-flippy comedy garbage wrestling jackassery of the lowest order. I post this only to highlight three key moments.

At approximately three minutes fifteen seconds, Guest Announcers The Clipse display the virulent streak of homophobia that plagues modern hip-hop. Also, they may be "high".

At the five minute mark, there is a genuinely impressive ladder spot, followed by the "Quizno's Slamwich" replay of said spot.

Finally, at nine minutes thirty, some demonic South-of-the-Border Boogeyman knock-off uses his amazing video toaster powers to destroy WSX Champ Vampiro.

If you truly are a glutton for punishment, you can slave through the whole clip. You'll witness announcer Fabian Kaelin reaching a new low in despicable bellowing, The Clipse calling Michael "Disco Machine" Mondragon "Ass Tassle", and 6-Pac wearing a shirt that says "Protect Your Elf From Hollywood." Other than that, the three segments above really tell you all you need to know about this incoherent disaster.